Lingering Weakness
by NoteEmmy
Summary: Malik sees a violent vision of the spirit he's tried so desperately to get rid of.


Malik was sore, tired, and hungry. The approaching sight of his apartment door was a pleasing sight. Even the darkness of the inside once he got past the steps wasn't as much of a deterrent as usual. He'd spent another long shift at his shop. There was nothing as appealing and gratifying to him as fixing up motorcycles; nothing quite like being handed a pile of broken parts and bringing them all to a working, roaring purr at the end of the day. It wasn't for the money, it was for the thrill.

But opening at eight in the morning and not leaving until nine most nights was tiring. He'd often thought of hiring other people, he certainly had a populated clientele. The money they pulled in would be enough for maybe one or two more pair of hands. He just wasn't interested in the extra faces. He, Rishid, and the bikes were all he wanted in the expanse of his shop. It was all he needed day in and day out to feel happy. Adding another person to the equation just to help get him out earlier sounded silly.

Even in the wake of how sore he was that evening. He bumbled around in the small space of the apartment, hand sliding along the wall to try and find the switch after the door had slammed behind him. He'd lived there for so long now it seemed silly to not know by memory where the light was. Once he found it his fingers gave it a flick, then he had to shield his eyes from the oncoming hardness of sharp, sudden light.

The moment his hand left his eyes he wished he'd left the lights off.

Terror seized him, going tense with fright, forgetting to breathe or perhaps holding his breath. It became paramount not to make a sound. He couldn't wake it up. He couldn't risk it. He didn't understand it, either.

Lying there on his couch was his former crazed self. Asleep, it seemed. Such a peaceful expression on his face that it made Malik sicker than if he'd come in to witness him in a pool of blood. He had no right to look like that. And he couldn't trust that his psychosis was actually asleep.

It had taken him a long time to accept his mental disease. A longer time still to treat it properly. Killing an addled part of his mind had only seemed too easy. Years had gone into his treatment in the aftermath, living with what he'd done, what he'd become. Sometimes he just wanted to forget. What he was looking at now made him realize he'd never be able to.

He tried to get angry rather than scared. His shoulders hunched up, he exhaled heatedly.

"**You**!" Shouting to try and see if he could startle his sleeping self on the couch. He looked so solid. So real. But he couldn't be. Malik just had to keep telling himself that. Not real. Not anymore.

The problem was that the spirit on the couch failed to even twitch. Upon hesitant closer inspection he didn't even look like he was breathing. Just lying there, possibly dead, occupying real space that he had no business taking up. Malik began to shake softly, fearful in his approach. He was ready, waiting, anticipating a strike. The more the room stood still in emptiness the more his heart hammered in his chest. Eventually he got close enough to touch.

He wanted to kick. To punch or pull hair or get a knife. Anything to protect himself. Anything to give himself an advantage. He just couldn't manage it. Instead, like a scared child, he reached out with trembling fingers, poking the side of that similar looking face before trailing his fingers down the other's cheek. It all felt so fake- that's what he wanted to believe. To know. But in reality he was feeling a face that had a warm presence despite no breathing, no obvious rush of blood that proved him alive.

How could he be? It was so ludicrous.

He'd long thought this apparition to be gone. It had been a year since his last incident, cowering in the dark with his ears covered against the grating chuckle that tormented him. Now looking at the man so peacefully dead on his couch he wondered what all his struggles had been for. For a foolish lucky second he eased.

And it was all it took for the hand resting on the spirit's chest to reach out, grabbing him around the throat. In a flash those violent eyes opened, that teeth-clenching grin set on him. Malik struggled but couldn't seem to really face the man. His eyes were averted as he tried to free himself, airway blocked and being crushed with each passing second.

"_**Still so weak**_." The warbled dark tone invaded his ears.

The battle felt over in just another second. He'd failed to protect himself. To help himself. To rid his mind of the possession that darkness had over him.

"…Malik?" Rishid's approach through the apartment door was met with wheezing. He dropped the bag of groceries he'd come in with to put his arm around the smaller, shivering form. "Malik!" Another episode? They'd thought him better. A relapse now would have been disastrous.

"Stop- please- stop-" Choked sobs ran wild from his lips, eyes squeezed shut tightly.

Rishid threw his arms around Malik's shoulders, trying to keep him still, to keep his arms at his sides rather than where they preferred to be; around his own throat. This wasn't the first time this had happened. They'd taken him off his medication slowly over the last year. Now he was realizing that hadn't been the best idea. "Malik, please…" He pleaded. It killed him watching his brother go through this. Through such lengths after everything was supposed to be over with. His struggles were heartbreaking.

Eventually his thrashing slowed, tiring himself out in Rishid's strong, unbreakable embrace. His crying continued, though, quieter and quieter. "I'm… I'm sorry…" Mumbled among everything else when he had a chance to form a coherent thought. He had been a fool to approach what had seemed dormant. To wake him up. Even a vision he should have ignored him.

Because that's all that had been on the couch.

A vision. A production of his mind.

Malik's only chance for survival was to keep on believing. Believing that he wasn't real. That he couldn't be real any longer. That part of his life was over.

Every so often moments like those served to harm him more, proving that lying to himself would only end badly. He just wasn't sure which parts were lies any longer.


End file.
